


Counting Murders

by ch1ps0h0y



Category: Magic Kaito, 名探偵コナン | Detective Conan | Case Closed
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Death, M/M, Purple Prose, Tragic Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2015-05-03
Packaged: 2018-03-28 19:46:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3867580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ch1ps0h0y/pseuds/ch1ps0h0y
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There were only six bullets in the chambers and he has no more left to give.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Counting Murders

His voice comes from the wings, whisper-soft, like the conscience you once had. "You know, detective, you have a talent for murder."

You don't turn your head. You can't face him with a smoking revolver and the blood of a nightmare on your hands. His footsteps shuffle, echoing through the warehouse. The sound is distinctly metallic and you place him on the steel rafters, somewhere behind you to your left. And yet, when he speaks again it's like he's right there beside you.

"How many does this make?"

You try to swallow the guilt. "Four," your voice replies, though your lips don't part except to let your tongue moisten them.

He hops closer. You feel like you can see him crouched on a beam, studying your back in moonbeams and starlight, the hat tipped low and the monocle shining bright. What teeth he shows are more like fangs than a smile.

"One for sorrow," he recites, "two for joy. Three for a girl...

"Four for a boy."

Suddenly he's right in front of you.

You jerk in fright, pull the trigger without thinking. The bullet ricochets and for a moment you fear you've hurt him, killed him too. But his hand is on the barrel, pointing your firearm to the heavens; the other is on your shoulder, steadying your rapidly-beating heart.

"Five for silver," he smiles, and then the warehouse becomes a blur as he spins you about to face a man with pale hair, black coat, black fedora, and the icy eyes of the devil. It's his hand covering yours and his finger which helps you pull the trigger this time. His marksmanship knocks them to the ground and you can see the moment when their life heaves its final gasp.

His white-gloved hand cradles yours, seamless suede and warm to touch. You can hear his steady, even breath exhaled by your cheek. It's the first time you've been this close, able to feel the tailored suit against your chest and legs and not simply study it from afar. Shadows dye his brilliance to grey, navy, and maroon - except for his eyes. You can see both when you eventually turn to him: eyes shaded the colour of the sky after twilight, chapped lips smeared lightly with balm. He lets you lower your hand and gentles his grip on your fingers, but you don't let go.

You have your hand on his waist and his continues to rest on your shoulder. It's an absurd still tango that you don't feel inclined to part from, not when you've always wanted to have him this close to you and not when you've already danced together so many times in the past. The grin on his face pares back into a smile as you gaze into his eyes, and for one wild moment you think about tugging him into a waltz.

Rapid footsteps break the moment like shattering ceramic. That flighty dove you've always sought to grasp moves quicker than you can react, quicker than you can think, wrapping a strong arm around your waist while the other shoots a grappling hook beyond the rafters. You're both pulled up as the first crow arrives on the scene and vanish in the wake of their cries.

You're running now, skidding across rooftops of concrete and corrugated iron then down amongst twisted vents and chain-link fences. Your legs are longer: you pull ahead even though he's swifter. The crack of gunfire pursues you both to the labyrinth of shipping containers at the docks and you count one, two, three hidden snipers from the frequency of the shots alone. A red laser sight flashes in your eyes a moment before you feel his weight tackling you from behind. The bullet carves a hole into the ground and he rolls you both behind a large metal crate.

"Six for gold," he breathes, running his hand through your hair before leaning around the crate and firing two shots with your revolver into the near-pitch darkness. There's no cry to mark their passing, only the silence of their rifles.

One left.

You yank him back and press your mouth to his before he can object. Aside from the taste of lip balm there's also warm water and some savoury sauce on his teeth. Karaage, you think, as you lean back with his face in your hands and a new weight in your breast pocket.

Moonlight paints a target brighter than drab brown. You caress his cheek, disturbing the clover charm which hangs from his monocle, understanding the plan without the need for spoken words.

Yet it's not him who leaps out from behind the crate and faces the last sniper front-on.

You hear a crack that isn't a gunshot. Feel something shatter that is not bone. Glass shards and a bullet drive into your chest, pin you down like a butterfly in a collector's box. Your legs won't move and neither will your arms, but you can still hear the final shot which silences everything. Your vision is the last to fade, so you see him crouch above you like a large, white bird, silhouetted by the moon. If you turn your head enough you fancy you can see the glittering crystal shards of the jewel he stole earlier lying scattered around your body, some coloured as if dipped in blood.

He brushes your face one last time. Already you feel cold. The sirens of the ambulance or police shriek in the distance but you both know they'll get here too late to save anyone. The empty chamber clicks and you hear a sharp, in-drawn breath that's just shy of a sob.

He closes your hand around your pistol and presses them there. Leans over to kiss you again. Then the wind passes and you're left to fade, alone on the cold ground beneath an even colder light. The orb in the night gives no warmth of its own, only reflects an imitation. You fix your eyes on it regardless and watch its brilliance dim with your escaping life, glad for this last penance, glad for the thief who had gotten away.

The last of your sight bleeds out just as the night sky begins to rain with the tears of stars.

 

_One because he didn't want to,_   
_Two because he did._   
_Three to save another life,_   
_Four to save the Kid._   
_Five for me,_   
_Six for you,_   
_Seven for a wish that will never come true._

**Author's Note:**

> The original rhyme ends with 'seven for a secret never to be told'.


End file.
